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Hey Everyone!

I’m writing this from my favourite spot on the couch and marveling at the pink blossoms and bright green leaves on the tree outside my window. Spring is finally here and it feels so good! The sun is shining, there’s a fresh pedicure on my toes, my three-year-old is napping, and my second trimester belly is feeling the tickles of a wee babe growing inside. I’m really excited about what the next few months to a year holds for our family, and I wanted to share one of those things with you now. 

If you’ve been following along on MommyMannegren, you’ll know that I’ve been blogging since December 2014. The blog has evolved a lot over that time as I’ve narrowed my niche — part of which has been trying to fill a need for faith-based discussions around grief, pregnancy loss, and other difficult motherhood conversations. The past six months have been amazing for this blog in terms of growth and visitors to the site. I’ve had more visitors to my blog since December than I’ve had in the past three years combined and that’s SUPER exciting for me. 

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Last year, while working on a book about pregnancy loss, I had the privilege of interviewing over thirty, fellow, grieving mothers.

A few of the questions I asked revolved around marriage and how relationships with a spouse or partner had been affected by loss. Almost all of the mothers commented on the differences in grieving style — how men and women process and release their grief in such unique and sometimes confusing ways. We don’t always understand the other’s grief, but I was equally encouraged by the many women who shared how their marriage was strengthened and encouraged throughout this time. We found this to be true in our experience too — these differences can ultimately be our strength.

So this letter was written for the marriages in the midst of grief: those still struggling to understand each other and yet, fiercely fighting for something that is so-very-worth-fighting-for.  Read more

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve missed out on a key aspect of motherhood.

You know, the part where we’re supposed to do it together?

For far too long, the words “mommy” and “wars” have perched contentedly side by side. Try as we might to peel and split these two incongruous words apart, our fingers are left bloodied and scraped by the effort. And it seems as if social media has only accentuated these differences. Scrolling through newsfeeds, it doesn’t take long to find parenting articles and opinion pieces written by women who are “doing motherhood wrong.” (Or at least, that’s what the sludge of negative comments seem to indicate???)

We bash new moms for using disposable diapers, telling them that they’re going to kill the environment. And then we turn around and give visible eye rolls to the pregnant woman who tells us she’s going to try cloth diapers. “Good luck,” we whisper sarcastically behind her back.

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**UPDATE: Thank you so much for all of your beautiful and deeply thought-out responses. Over thirty women shared their hearts and their children’s stories with me, and for that, I can not say “thank you” enough. Thank you for trusting me to honour their memories and in the process, hopefully encourage other grieving mothers. The form is now CLOSED to responses but I would still love to hear your stories. Feel free to e-mail me or send me a message if you would like to share your own story of loss, grief, and hope on mommymannegren.com**

Hi everyone!

I’m looking for some help from my grieving mama followers!

Over the past eight months or so, I have been working on a book that I’ve tentatively titled, “Journaling Your Way Through Pregnancy Loss.” The goal of the book is to help encourage grieving mothers to embrace and better process their grief after a miscarriage or stillbirth. As you know, society doesn’t often talk about pregnancy loss, and it can be a confusing and isolating experience for women to go through. I’m hoping that this book will help break some of those taboos and allow women to find freedom and beauty in the story that they’ve been given – even when that story doesn’t exactly look the way we’d like it to. And ultimately, I hope that this book will point our grieving hearts towards Christ and remind us that while we mourn, we do not mourn without purpose.

In order to make this book stronger, I am in the process of revising my first draft. One of the things that has been suggested is to find some additional stories and insights from other grieving women, and add them to the book too. Here’s where I need your help!

If you’re interested in sharing your story with me, I have created an interview questionnaire for you to complete. Any of the answers that you give may be used as examples within the book, but most likely I will choose one or two of your answers to include. I may edit or re-write them slightly to fit the book. You can also let me know whether you want your answers to be anonymous (I’ll pick a random pseudonym) or whether you want me to use your first name when sharing your story.

I know that these stories are very personal and close to our hearts. Please don’t feel any pressure to participate in this. This is YOUR story and I don’t ever want to share a part of it unless you’re completely 100% comfortable with it. If you prefer to simply answer more generally – that’s fine too – any additional insight I can get into pregnancy loss would be a huge help!

It is a rather long, written questionnaire, but please don’t feel that you have to answer every question (not every question will be applicable.) I really appreciate your honesty as I know that some of these questions may be very difficult to answer. I’m hoping that this generation of women will be ones who stand up for the brokenhearted, and support the generation of grieving mothers who come after us. This book is just one step in creating that conversation and I hope you can partner with me in that.

Feel free to take a look over the questionnaire and complete it as you wish, here: http://bit.ly/2hlUI3Z

There is no guarantee that this book will be published, but I am working on making it as strong as I possibly can in hopes of helping create honest dialogue and discussion surrounding pregnancy loss.

If you have any questions or comments, feel free to contact me. Thank you so much for considering this!

Much love,
Liz

Hey there!

I just wanted to say that I have been so incredibly encouraged and inspired by you! I started this little blog over two and a half years ago, and have been truly touched by the relationships and friendships that have grown through this journey.

Thank you, dear readers, for your encouragement and your comments. Thank you for sharing your hearts and your stories with me; and thank you for listening as we have shared our hearts and story with you. You have partnered and journeyed with us over these past three years, and we are beyond grateful for the purposeful ways that you have loved on and supported us in our grief.

Pregnancy loss touches upon so many families, and yet, it isn’t always a comfortable or easy topic to discuss. Thank you for helping to break stigmas surrounding grief, and for bravely stepping forward to embrace the beauty found within the mess. For those who are hurting and grieving, and for those who are standing alongside the bereaved, there is hope. We mourn, but we do not mourn without purpose.

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The jagged seashells crunch underfoot and the tide laps lazily along the shore. We’re the first ones on the beach this morning and the silence feels comforting. Gulls swoop and screech above as we settle into the cool sand, toes burying deep among the tiny grains. My toddler busies himself with buckets and shovels, creating a world of dusty castles and ravine roads, and I bask in the early morning warmth of the spring sunshine.

For a city girl who loves quiet libraries and comfy couches, it never ceases to amaze me that the place I feel most connected to my grief is here, outdoors.

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Eight weeks into my fourth pregnancy, it ended. Spots appeared as if out of nowhere; these little specks of hopes and dreams lying against faded fabric. I saw the dark blood and broke a twenty-five-year streak. I dropped my first f-bomb.

The word echoed around the bathroom, feeling unfamiliar and rough against my lips. I glanced over at the toddler who was sitting on the couch, happily chewing on buttered toast and watching an episode of Paw Patrol. His two-year-old-self was completely oblivious to the emotional earthquake threatening to shake our small apartment, and for that, I was glad.

I sat in silence and struggled to breathe through lungs that were no longer working properly. What air was left in the room had grown heavy, weighing down upon my shoulders and pressing into my chest. Few words seemed strong enough to contest the range of emotions that had suddenly slammed into me. I cried black mascara tears and gently hugged the flabby belly that had been stretched and loved on by five babies. My heart aching, I whispered and prayed over the child I would never know. “Stay strong, wee one. Stay strong.”

And she did. Until she left us, five days later.

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I was seven months pregnant when I lost my first child. The doctors hurriedly pulled him from my stomach but they found no heartbeat, no breath. He was declared stillborn.

My second pregnancy ended quickly. I barely made it to the eight week mark when the doctors confirmed what my body had already told me – it was over. They told me I had “experienced a miscarriage.”

When you look at their definitions on paper, a miscarriage and a stillbirth are essentially the same thing. Both involve the loss of a beautiful baby in utero. A miscarriage occurs before 20 weeks of pregnancy, a stillbirth occurs after 20 weeks.* Both types of loss involve the pain of losing a child; and both leave a mother with empty arms and crushed dreams.

And yet, there’s no denying that these are two very different experiences.

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To say that I love reading is an understatement.

Some of my favourite childhood memories are the days spent browning on a lawn chair beside the lake, soaking up novel after novel. I used to dream of owning a “Beauty and the Beast” type library with swinging ladders and gleaming, spiral staircases – who needs a house, when you can nest happily amongst paperbacks?

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“At least he died as a baby. It’s more painful to lose them when they’re older.”

The burial had concluded moments earlier. We sat under a green canopy, rain dripping lazily off the sides and watched as funeral workers tidied up the area around my son’s fresh grave.

This was not something that I wanted to hear. Not today, not ever.

“At least he died as a baby…”

These words were offered to me by a much-loved family member, an individual who was clearly struggling with painful memories of their own. I knew this comment wasn’t meant to cause pain – in fact, it wasn’t really about me. This was simply the truth as they saw it. But it didn’t make the words sting any less; it didn’t make them any more appropriate for that moment. It may have been “more painful” to lose an older child but I still would have given anything for a little extra time with him.

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Is it really mid-December already? Where did 2015 disappear to in such a hurry? Seems like just yesterday we were busy stuffing Alistair’s pyjamas full of towels to make this video. Hard to believe that another twelve months have past and we’re once again singing carols, decorating the tree (with non-breakable ornaments this year), and wrapping presents.

Realizing that the season of Christmas cards was upon us (and remembering how much fun we had filming last year’s holiday video) we donned our favourite ugly sweaters and got to work creating another Mannegren Christmas Special.

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One year ago today, I hit “publish” on my first blog post.

I still hesitate before clicking the little blue button that sends a post zooming into your emails and Facebook feeds, but that first time was especially intimidating. Feeling vulnerable, and slightly self-conscious (not to mention fighting off every blogger’s worst fear – “What if nobody reads this??”) I took a deep breath and began to furiously type out our story.

Twelve months and sixty posts later, we’re here. Wherever exactly “here” is.

I started this site as a much needed outlet for grief; thoughts that I had previously been unable to speak found their voice on these pages. And during the process, I re-discovered a love for words and a quiet delight that comes along with each satisfying click of the keyboard.

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